e Moved

We’d only been in the new house a week when the visits began.
Every morning, right around sunrise, the same old dog would appear at our front door.

He was graying around the muzzle, his gait stiff, eyes clouded but kind. We’d give him food and water, and after resting for a while, he’d wander off down the road.

At first, we assumed he belonged to a neighbor. But one morning, while scratching his ears, my son noticed something on the worn leather collar — a brass tag engraved with:

Christopher Jr.

I froze. The man who owned our house before us — the one who had passed away — was named Christopher.

The next day, the dog returned as usual, but instead of lying down after eating, he began to whine, pawing at the porch, glancing toward the road. He let out a low, urgent bark, then looked back at us as if to say, Come on.

My son tugged at my sleeve.
“Mom, I think he wants us to follow him.”

I hesitated — but the pleading in those cloudy eyes made it impossible to say no.

We walked for nearly 20 minutes, down winding side streets, then onto a narrow dirt path leading into the woods. The air grew cooler, quieter, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

Finally, Christopher Jr. stopped in a small clearing. He walked to a spot beside a moss-covered stump and began to paw at the ground, whining softly.

I knelt down — and saw it.

Half-buried beneath the leaves was a weathered wooden box. I pulled it free, brushing off dirt, and opened the creaking lid.

Inside were letters, photographs, and a pocket watch. The letters were all addressed to Lily — Christopher’s late wife — and dated from decades ago. The last one, written in shaky handwriting, said:

If you’re reading this, Lily, I’ll be with you soon. I’ve kept our promise — Christopher Jr. will show them the way.

I looked at the old dog, who sat watching me quietly, tail thumping once against the ground.